The Roadie

Keeping the kids on track—as they travel from place to
place—is the responsibility of Markowitz, known to his kids
and their parents as “Mr. Jim.”

It’s a rainy January day in New Orleans, and the French Quarter,
which many consider seedy even in the sunshine, looks downright
decadent. This section of town is famous for its taverns, all-night
dance clubs, and lingerie shops. But these streets also are jampacked
with teaching opportunities. That’s why Jim Markowitz is taking a
small group of 4th and 5th graders on a tour.

Markowitz teaches young performers, and his four students and their
parents arrived in New Orleans—their 11th city in two
months—a couple of days ago. Sometimes the towns fly by, and the
group sees only a new auditorium, another Holiday Inn, and more 3- and
4-year-old fans of Barney’s Musical Castle, a stage
version of the popular TV program starring the gregarious purple
dinosaur. But some cities—because of the culture, the people, the
history—are special. And when that’s the case, Markowitz
ushers his pupils on field trips.

At the moment, they’re strolling down Bourbon Street, guided
by a National Park ranger sporting a long beard and a green uniform. In
front of a building that can be described only as a shack, he stops the
kids and tells them that this was once the blacksmith shop of a pirate.
Today, however, it’s a tavern with a fireplace that looks awfully
inviting.

Back in Texas, which is home base for the show and its cast members,
the teachers in Dallas and Houston who usually supervise
Markowitz’s students don’t much care what these young
performers and their adventurous instructor are doing. They want
assignments finished, curricula followed. Keeping the kids on
track—as they travel from place to place, performing throughout
most of the school year—is the responsibility of Markowitz, known
to his kids and their parents as “Mr. Jim.” But he’s
more than just a teacher; he’s also uncle, pal, disciplinarian,
timekeeper, and event organizer.

Today, he’s an amateur tour guide. As his charges walk the
streets, he constantly cranes his neck, making sure they, as well as
their parents, are in tow. He points out statues and shops that display
paraphernalia of Creole and Cajun heritage. “That’s
zydeco,” he tells 11-year-old Wesley Farnsworth and his mother,
Tammy, as they pass a gaudy gift shop, from which the zippy accordion-
and-washboard music blares.

At one point, the group ducks out of the rain and into a
tent-covered porch at Café du Monde, the most famous place in New
Orleans to sip coffee and munch beignets—hot, fried biscuits
dusted with powdered sugar. The place is so close to the Mississippi
River, you could almost throw a stone into the water from here.

After the students have taken their seats and begun to eat their
snacks, they recite the three daily duties Markowitz has taught them.
“Do your job, go to school, and be a kid,” they shout, as
powdered sugar snowflakes their faces. At one point, 10-year-old Talia
Davis explains Markowitz’s reasoning behind the mantra.
“That’s just to let us know he understands life on the
road,” she says.

The traveling life for Markowitz and the Barney child cast
members— Talia, Wesley, Fernando Moguel Jr., and Megan
Stanke—means decent hotels, catered meals, and fun places to see.
It also means stops at plenty of humdrum towns and many nights spent on
a bus. It’s a nice bus, with a full kitchen and all the video
games and compact discs a kid could possibly want. But the sleeping
arrangement isn’t ideal. When Markowitz, his four students, and
their parents climb into little cocoons stacked three high, privacy is
guarded only by a curtain.

A few years ago, Markowitz couldn’t have imagined this kind of
setup. But as a high school English teacher in Westchester County, New
York, he was restless, wondering whether or not he should move to
California for a change of pace. He loved teaching, and literature even
more, but traditional public schools were beginning to feel
routine.

One day, a friend suggested a life on the road. So, in 1998,
Markowitz called On Location Education, a business in Mount Kisco, New
York, that hires instructors for studio jobs in California and with
road shows. Markowitz immediately landed a job with a traveling
production of the musical The King and I. It was exactly the sort of
adventure he was seeking, and during the show’s run, he fell in
love with a dancer in the cast and later married her. In a year or two,
the couple hopes to move to her native Japan, where Markowitz has
applied for an overseas teaching post. But for now, she’s based
in New York, and they keep in touch by telephone and e-mail.

Not everybody,
of course, is cut out for this kind of job, with its long hours
and baby-sitting duties. But it has its perks.

Not every teacher of child performers lives like this. Some, like
Markowitz, travel constantly and teach on the fly, while others report
to the same “classroom” for months at a time—for
Broadway shows and TV sitcoms, for example. Films, some of which are
shot in a matter of weeks, are usually short- term assignments. But
some movies’ casts are huge. During the filming of Passenger
57—a 1992 thriller set on a jumbo jet—for instance, 10
teachers supervised a total of 175 kids of various ages.

To some degree, state law dictates a teacher’s
responsibilities. In California, studio instructors also serve as
guardians, ensuring that each child works no more than the number of
hours allowed by law—which vary depending on the child’s
age and the time spent on location. Other states, like Florida, have
fewer guidelines, according to Alan Simon, president of On Location
Education, which is considered a leader in the industry.

Not everybody, of course, is cut out for this kind of job, with its
long hours and baby-sitting duties. But it has its perks.

“If you can travel, everyone’s dream would be to take a
sabbatical like this,” says veteran teacher Chuck Yerger of Lake
Mary, Florida. In the early ’90s, before they became pop-music
superstars, Britney Spears and ’N Sync’s Justin Timberlake
and Lance Bass were performers on Disney’s Mickey Mouse
Club. Yerger was their teacher. He was also a mentor of sorts who
got close to the kids. Bass, in fact, proved as much when he played a
celebrity round of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire last year; he
listed Yerger as a telephone lifeline.

Markowitz actually has two jobs. Aside from teaching, he’s a
“wrangler;” he keeps track of the young cast members during
each show, making sure they hit the stage on cue and ensuring their
safety backstage, where elaborate lighting rigs and monster speakers
resemble those at a rock concert. For these duties, he’s paid by
the show’s production company, but his job as teacher also
requires him to be a bit of a big brother who spends a lot of time by
the kids’ sides. “You really can’t get away,”
he says. “I’m sure they get sick of me
sometimes.”

Although Markowitz won’t discuss his teacher salary in detail,
Simon says the industry’s paychecks are comparable with those of
public school teachers. Even more important, he says, the job allows
him to work closely with each student. He knows each kid’s
academic strengths and weaknesses and his or her personal interests.
Wesley’s mother, Tammy, can’t believe the difference
Markowitz’s one- on-one attention has made in her son’s
studies. “He’s learning more than in a regular
school,” she says.

Inside the arena at the University of New Orleans, which looks like
a giant spaceship parked on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain about 10
miles north of the French Quarter, class is about to begin. Markowitz
will teach every subject, from math to writing, while battling the
incessant clanging of steel, the yells of a road crew, and the rolling
of large carts trying everyone’s patience.

‘If you can travel, everyone’s dream would be to
take a sabbatical like this.’

Chuck Yerger,
Veteran Teacher,
Lake Mary, Florida.

The kids bounce into the classroom, a windowless closet only steps from
the arena floor, about a third the size of what they’re used to
in school. Three lunchroom-style tables have been provided; the two
boys work at one table, the two girls at another, Markowitz at the
third. There’s no chalkboard, no overhead projector, no
PowerPoint. The class’ supplies are packed in a large
rolling cabinet covered, like an old suitcase, with stickers boasting
places visited—Penn State University, the Big Apple, and the zoo
in Greenville, South Carolina, among them. Inside the cabinet are
drawers that contain the students’ books and folders. It’s
noon, and school lasts until 5 each afternoon, giving the kids no less
than 20 hours a week of direct instruction, with weekends and Mondays
off.

Recess might be taken in an arena parking lot, if at all. Lunch time
means a stroll to another windowless room, which offers a catered
spread. Coolers of soft drinks, juices, and milk await, and here, in
New Orleans, so do dishes of jambalaya, crawfish
étouffée, and king cake, a coffeecake-like dessert
consumed during Mardi Gras, which the kids heard about during their
walking tour.

After fetching their books from the cabinet, the kids spend some
time with Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Markowitz reads
a line, hoping to introduce a few new vocabulary words to his
students.

“Who’s he talking about?” he asks.

“Juliet,” Talia says.

“Look at how beautiful he writes that,” Markowitz
notes.

At one point, Wesley reads the lines with a British accent
(he’s an actor, after all): “At my poor house look to
behold this night, Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven
light.”

Later, as the kids tackle word problems in math, Talia raises her
hand, seeking help. Markowitz squats down to look her in the eyes, and
her glare means one thing: He has onion breath. Pretending to be
offended, he stands, but Talia hangs on, looping her left arm around
his neck, slipping into a natural hug.

Spoiled, in a way, by the attention Markowitz gives them, the kids
constantly compete for his time. It only makes sense, of course; their
world is composed of field trips, new places, screaming crowds, and the
busy shuffle of grownups in cast and crew. So this relatively quiet
time is important.

In a tone that’s part teacher, part guardian, Jim convinces
Talia to let him go. Heeding Fernando’s call, he gently slips
away and says, “There are other people that need me.”

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